


Pirates, John!

by sherlockholmes_doctorwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Pirate Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmes_doctorwatson/pseuds/sherlockholmes_doctorwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John insists that Sherlock stop experimenting and switches on the telly to distract him.  Sherlock discovers Pirates of the Caribbean and his childhood dream is rekindled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pirates, John!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all you Johnlockers! This is my second fic - it's fluffy, it's silly, and it was so much fun to write. I hope everybody enjoys it! As always, comments are super appreciated. Love and kisses xx

“SHERLOCK!”

“I’m right here, John, there’s no need to shout.”

“There is EVERY need to shout, you twat, your bloody experiment is boiling over and I’ve just drunk tea from a kettle with HUMAN TOES IN IT!”

“John, how could you?! That was a very delicate study and you’ve gone and ruined it!”

“HUMAN TOES, SHERLOCK. I DRANK TOE TEA.”

“It’s your own fault for not checking the kettle.”

“We’ve got post-its—” John Watson extracted a yellow pad from a drawer and chucked at his flatmate’s curly head. “Would it have killed you to leave a _bloody_ note?”

“You _see_ but you do not _observe_ , John, any idiot with half a brain could have felt the difference in the weight of the kettle—”

John growled loudly and stalked into the bathroom to brush his teeth _at least_ twice. Sherlock was busy with an eyedropper and a beaker on the kitchen table, crouched low and peering at the blue liquid. He made a mental note to ask Molly for more toes next time he was at Bart’s.

John stalked back into the kitchen shortly and snatched the beaker from under Sherlock’s nose. “Right, that’s it,” he scowled, dumping the liquid down the sink. Sherlock leapt after him and gave a pained shout. “You are going to sit on the couch and we are going to watch telly and you are _not_ going to put body parts in my kettle and you are _not_ going to stain the counter blue!”

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms. “John, that compound took me _days_ to perfect.”

“I don’t care,” said John, taking the detective by the elbow and dragging him into the living room. “Sit,” he ordered, gesturing at the couch. Sherlock plopped on to the sofa, his blue silk dressing gown billowing to rest around him, his lower lip stuck out like a child. He drew his knees to his chest and glared as John retrieved the clicker and sat beside him. The doctor studied his friend with a little flare of sympathy in his chest and rubbed the man’s shoulder with a little smile. “Come on, Sherlock, we’ll find a nice film to keep that big brain busy.” Sherlock shifted away with a petulant _hmph_ and John shook his head, flipping the channels.

“There’s a documentary on methamphetamine.” Sherlock scoffed. “All right…here, what about The Matrix?”

“ _Please_ , John, don’t insult me.”

The screen flicked from channel to channel, passing a dog show, Survivor, Doctor Who, Pirates of the Caribbean, cooking, the news—

Sherlock peered at the set. “Go back. John, go back!”

John looked at him in disbelief. “Sherlock, you’ve never cooked a meal in your life.”  
“Not the cooking,” he replied, rolling his eyes, “the pirates! Go back to the pirates!” Sherlock’s pale eyes were bright and shining as he folded his long legs beneath him, practically bouncing on the cushion. John smirked and flipped back.

“Pirates of the Caribbean?” he teased. “I’ve seen this a dozen times, Sherlock, isn’t there anything else—”

“ _Shh_!” the detective hissed, his gaze fixed on the screen where Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom were engaged in a battle of swords. He was leaning forward, mouth open, and John could almost see him cataloguing every step, every duck, every swish of a blade. The two actors danced around each other, occasionally bantering back and forth, and the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was wrapped in his dressing gown, watching reverently. John had the sudden thought that Sherlock had never looked more innocent, more childlike than he did in that moment, and he had to resist the urge to snap a picture with his mobile.

“You hungry?” he asked quietly, pulling himself to his feet. Sherlock waved a hand distractedly, still transfixed by the film. John chuckled to himself and went to the kitchen to heat up leftovers from the fridge.

 

_Watson swiftly crossed the deck, dodging other members of the crew on his way to the captain’s chambers. With every other step came a thump on the wood from his peg leg. He knocked quickly and swung open the door to the small room. “Captain!”_

_“What is it, Watson?”_

_“It’s his ship, sir. Starboard side. Shall we ready the cannons?”_

_The captain had his hands flat on the desk, poring over maps and charts, his cheeky monkey making faces at Watson from the slender man’s shoulder. He grumbled something low under his breath, poking at a map with one long finger._

_“Sir?” Watson prompted. “We can’t let him hide forever.”_

_“Aye,” the captain growled. He turned slowly, his long black coat swirling around him. Fixing his cornered hat to his tangled head of curls, he snatched up a filthy bottle of rum off the desk, and pushed his way past the first mate to make his way on deck. “READY THE CANNONS, YOU DOGS.” The crew sprang into action, some vaulting below deck to load the guns, others tending the sails, still more snatching up their pistols and swords. The captain drew a telescope from his pocket and peered across the waves at the approaching ship. “Watson,” he murmured, “we’re in for a hell of a brawl.”_

_Watson grinned, gold tooth glinting in the sun, and rested a steady hand on his pistol. “Aye, Captain,” he replied, “there’ll be blood.”_

_The first blasts from the cannons rocked the pirates’ ship, landing true on the other ship’s decks. Shouts carried across the water as the warring crew prepared to fight. Another round of cannon fire and the ships had snuck close enough for the pirates to spill onto the rival ship, and soon the sound of gunfire and the screams of wounded men rang out._

_“HOLMES!” roared a voice from the rail. Watson spun around, pistol drawn, ready to shoot._

_Captain Holmes sneered. “Moriarty, you dirty bastard. Come to meet the sticking end of my sword?”_

_Moriarty smoothed his navy coat, the rings on his finger gleaming. The monkey darted across the deck, shrieking, and disappeared up the riggings. Pistol shots burst around the three men, and Watson sidestepped one of his crewmates as he fell, a dagger sticking straight out of his chest. “Oh, Holmes,” Moriarty smirked, his dark eyes taunting. “I’m going to burn the heart out of you…”_

 

John woke suddenly, his heart thundering in his chest, and screamed. “Bloody HELL, Sherlock!” he shouted, swatting at the sword in his face. “Where did you get that?!”

Sherlock angled the blade up, admiring it with a wicked grin. “You like it? I popped round the antiques shop this morning.” He flicked it through the air experimentally. “Not a _real_ pirate’s sword, mind you, but it looks rather impressive.”

John sat up, raking a hand through his hair. “Pirate—what—Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you on about?” he yelled at Sherlock’s retreating figure.

“Pirates, John!” Sherlock called over his shoulder as he pounced, stabbing the air in front of him. John groaned and fell back on his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. _Brilliant. One stupid film and he’s gone completely mad._ Finally, he hoisted himself out of bed and stuck his feet in his slippers.

He managed to convince Sherlock to keep the swordplay out of the kitchen as he fixed tea and toast, and was savouring the quiet when there came the sound of the blade swishing through the air, and a loud crash. _“Die, you mangy fiends!”_

John burst into the room to find Sherlock standing triumphantly astride a toppled chair, sword held high, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Sherlock, you arsehole, get down from that!” he cried, hurrying to wrench the sword from the detective’s hand. “You—are going—to impale yourself.”

Sherlock dove after him. “But John!” he whined. “It’s an _experiment_!”

“Oh!” John exclaimed sarcastically. “Oh, an experiment! My mistake! Testing how many pieces of furniture you can jump on before you lose a limb?” 

Sherlock scowled. “Nooo,” he replied, his lips curling around the word. “I’m testing the muscle groups used most in sword-fighting.”

John rested the sword on the mantelpiece. “Have some tea, and maybe you can have it back after you’ve finished,” he said, shaking his head. Sherlock dropped into a chair and began gulping down his tea.

“Toast, too, you swashbuckler.”

Sherlock tried to hide a grin behind a mouthful of toast at that, but John caught sight of it and chuckled. “What, all this because of that stupid film?”

“John!” Sherlock gasped. “It is _not_ stupid, it’s _fantastic_!” He shoveled the rest of the toast into his mouth and leapt up to grab the sword, swirling and pointing it at the doctor. His dressing gown twirled dramatically. “I challenge you,” he said, the side of his mouth quirking up.

“Sherlock, you can’t be serious.”

“What’s that, John? Are you afraid?”

John pursed his lips. “And what am I supposed to fight with? My hands?”

Sherlock disappeared without a word and returned moments later with a second sword, tossing it hilt-first to John, who caught it with a sigh. Sherlock eyed him, wordlessly daring him to join in the fun. _Fun,_ John found himself thinking. _When’s the last time I saw Sherlock having fun?_ He was reminded of the previous night, the detective’s wide-eyed gaze as he drank in the piracy and the swords and the ships—how naïve he’d looked, how unlike his usual stoic self—and he felt a warm twinge in his heart. _To hell with it,_ he thought, and stood, raising the sword. Sherlock broke into a wide smile and lunged.

For all his lack of experience, John found that sword-fighting was not as awfully hard as it looked. He was able to parry most of Sherlock’s jousts, and even got in a few of his own—carefully, of course, reminding himself of the last time he’d had to turn the kitchen into a surgery. They danced across the living room and around the furniture, and then Sherlock began to back John up the stairs. They reached the top and just as Sherlock gave a mighty lunge, John jumped back. His heel caught the top stair and he sprawled backwards, the sword skittering under his bed, and Sherlock tumbled on top of him.

“Ow—bloody hell, Sherlock, get your bony knee off me!” John grumbled. Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows and shifted his limbs out of poking distance.

“Where’s my sword?” he frowned.

John looked right and spotted the offending blade buried halfway into the wall. “Oh, damn, Mrs. Hudson’s going to have our heads for that.” He looked forward again only to find Sherlock staring curiously at him. He felt something jump delightfully in his chest and suddenly found he couldn’t quite get enough air. “Sherlock…?” The detective’s curls were falling over his forehead, dark against his pale skin, and there was a faint blush rising to his perfect cheekbones. John found himself wondering if angels could be pirates. He licked his lips nervously, suddenly very aware of Sherlock’s hips resting on his own.

Sherlock slowly lifted a hand and with the lightest of touches, brushed John’s blonde hair back. “I think,” he murmured, “we can call it a draw.” They both chuckled softly, their eyes locked. “John…” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes?” John sucked in a breath as Sherlock shifted on top of him.

The hand drifted to his cheek. “Do pirates ever…swashbuckle…together?”

John could only hold back for a moment before he burst out laughing, clutching his stomach. “Oh, Sherlock,” he gasped, shaking his head at the put-out look on the other man’s face. He threaded a hand through those dark curls and drew him down into a warm kiss. John snaked a hand around Sherlock’s waist and slipped his tongue between his cupid’s bow lips, and when they broke apart, both men were flushed and breathless.

“We can swashbuckle any time you like.”


End file.
